


To Ransom a Rose

by FieryPen37



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: Angst, Curses, F/M, Gaston Wins, Imprisonment, Magic, Partial Curse Breaking, Reunions, Separations, Sweet/Hot, True Love's Kiss, mentions of domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-10-16 12:04:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10570941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FieryPen37/pseuds/FieryPen37
Summary: A tragedy of timing leaves Beast a prisoner behind bars and Belle a prisoner by marriage.





	1. Part 1

To Ransom a Rose

 

Today she would come. The scratched marks in the stone of his cell wall told him it had been a week since she had last visited. The Beast—once a man with a name and a home—straightened as well as he was able. The chains around his wrists and feet made movement difficult. His jailer had left him a squat three-legged stool, a bucket that functioned as his privy, and a wooden bowl for his scraps. Beast smoothed the fur on his jaw, ran his claws through his mane, smoothed the ragged hem of his frayed trousers.

Above him, the door squealed open and he heard her voice, musical and softly accented. Silhouetted by the golden firelight behind them, Beast saw her slender shape and its looming, sculpted counterpart.

“But you said--”

“I said half an hour and half an hour only. Don’t test my patience.”

“That not what we agreed upon. You gave me your word,” she said, her shadow unwavering. Beast was torn between pride and willing her to stay silent.

“Quiet, woman!”

The shadow’s arm lifted, as if to strike her. Beast surged against the length of chain and unleashed a deep, ragged roar. The hand dropped as if its strings had been cut.

“It will be an hour, as we agreed.” Her voice was cold and hard as steel.

The door slammed shut in reply and Beast held his breath, savoring the slow unfolding. First on the stair leading to his cell, he saw her neat feet in soft slippers below the drape of her skirts. Then her legs and torso, then her arms laden with gifts, then—at last!—her beloved face. Her dark caramel brown hair fell loose and rich about her shoulders, glossy in the light of the candle she held. Her smile of greeting was weak. Beast disliked the shadows beneath her eyes.

“Belle,” he rasped, his throat sore after roaring.

“Adam,” she said, with an exhale like relief. He savored the feeling of Belle saying his name.

Belle settled onto the stool beyond the bars of his cell. Seated on his own stool, Beast scooted as far as the chains would allow. The basket beneath her arm held the usual gifts: a covered pot of thick, fragrant stew, a jar of salve, a stack of books. They sat in silence, absorbed in looking at each other. She looked thinner, and her hands were chapped and red. The gold ring on her left ring finger glinted in the candlelight.

Beast was brimming with questions. Was her husband treating her well? Was she eating enough? How was Maurice faring alone in their old house? Did she think of him? But, as starved as he was for news, he hungered more for her presence, her voice and her beautiful, resilient mind.  Beast cleared his throat.

“How is Gavin?” he asked, hoping to broach a neutral topic—as neutral as they could manage. Belle’s answering smile was filled with equal parts pain and joy, her hands folded over the slight swell of her pregnant belly. Beast didn’t begrudge her that. Whatever the feelings she bore for the father, a mother couldn’t help but love her child—he knew from experience.

“Isn’t it ludicrous that Gaston’s named him already? Or that he’s so confident it’s a boy.”

“No one fathers sons like Gaston,” Beast said dryly. Belle laughed, a bright burst of sound.

“I’m only a few months along. I’m fine, really. No sickness. Just tired,” she said.

“I’m glad you are well,” he said. Belle’s smile wobbled.

“I miss you.”

His heart thumped in his chest, a hard, painful squeeze.

“Oh Belle,” he said thickly.

“I’m sorry,” she said, choked.

They tiptoed together during these visits, tiptoed around the horrible tragedy that led them here, tiptoed around the truth of their feelings. If they spoke of what could have been, they would only sink into despair. Beast remembered the cold, crisp air, the snow, the shatter of fragile porcelain, the barrel of Gaston’s pistol pressed against his chest. Too late. She’d come back too late.

“I’m here for you, Belle. _Always_. And if he lays a hand on you again, I’ll--”

“No, Adam. I’ll be all right,” she said, and he could see the flash of steel in her. He’d fallen in love with that steely determination, her integrity of spirit, her stubbornness. God, he loved her.

Beast’s cell moldered beneath Gaston’s manse, and one night he’d heard shouting, then the thud of a blow. Red had spilled over his senses and the next thing he knew, he’d torn free—it had only been chains then—battered down the door, shouldered his way inside--Gaston was holding a pistol to Belle’s head, one of her eyes already blackening. He submitted, as she had in his castle when the rose crumpled to ash.

“H--How did you like _Robinson Crusoe_?” Belle asked.

Beast latched onto the subject gratefully. Literature had always been their sanctuary. They debated the books they’d read, from political context, to philosophical and literary implications, and the simple pleasure they found in each work. Their allotted hour waned much too soon.         

Belle knelt on the floor to wedge the pot, jar, and books between the bars. Despite knowing it wouldn’t work, Beast reached. Just to touch her again, to feel the comforting solidness of her . . . His paw strained in empty air, a meter away from Belle’s outstretched fingertips. Yearning opened like an abyss inside him. Clenching his jaw, he mastered himself. He wouldn’t spend what little time they had left blubbering. The dark was waiting; the long empty night would be there to comfort him.

“Adam . . .” she said. Beast blinked, looking deep into those brown eyes flecked with gold. So beautiful.

There was pleading in her eyes, an edge of desperation. Belle looked so small, huddled on the floor, reaching through the bars for him. It pierced him, just how fragile she was. All too easily, he leaned on her strength, took it for granted. Confused, Beast tried to comfort her.

“I know, Belle. You don’t have to say it.”

“I’m sorry, Adam. For everything. It’s my fault. For the curse, for . . . for Chip . . .” a sound somewhere between a groan and a growl left him. Porcelain shards were etched into his memory. That poor boy.  

“Shh, it’s all right. It’s not your fault--” he tried to say _. It’s mine._

But the words were tumbling out of her now: “I should have ridden faster. I should have taken you with me to save Papa. Then they would have known you weren’t dangerous. I’m sorry! I . . . I realized too late that I loved you.” Her words brought both agony and bliss, and Beast wished more than anything that he could embrace her.

“I let you go. I let you go that night because I love you. And you saved my life, Belle. Gaston was about to kill me. You threw yourself over me, protecting me with your own body. You bargained with a monster for my life, and as much misery as that brought us, I can’t help but worship you for it. You saved me.”

Through her tears, Belle smiled.

“Too bad the enchantress wasn’t here to see it.”

“That witch can go hang for all I care--” Beast said, with venom.

A pounding knock from above interrupted them.

“Time’s up! Belle hurry up here! Lefou and some of my friends are coming for supper!”

Belle rose and dusted off her apron. She uttered a soul-deep sigh.

“Predictable to the last. They’ll eat, be drunk and crude swapping stories, and then asleep before sundown.”

“Perhaps you can sneak down when they’re asleep.” He tried, he really tried, to make it an offhand remark, one that could be easily refused. He could tell from Belle’s wry expression that he hadn’t fooled her.

“I’ll try,” Belle said.

Beast watched her go as he had too many times before and contemplated the scratches on his wall. It would only be forever.     


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Belle finds a stroke of luck.

Part 2

 

 

It was well after midnight before Belle found her bed. Gaston snored before the fire, along with Lefou and several other villagers in varying postures of debauchery around the manse’s main parlor. It had been a meal of beer, roasted potatoes, and venison—again—and a mountain of dishes waited for her in the kitchen. With his earnings as an officer in the war and the sprawling manse willed to him by his uncle, Gaston was wealthy enough to afford servants. This was her punishment for stealing more time with Adam. The hard set of his mouth, the glitter of Gaston’s green eyes promised retribution.

It had been worth it, she thought as she climbed the stairs. They’d stolen another half hour after she’d completed her chores. It broke her heart to leave him alone in the dark, looking so thin and ragged and lonely. Her heart was a mosaic of pieces now. Some with Papa, some with Adam, and some with child growing inside her. Belle dried her hands on a dish towel and set it down. Her rig for the laundry still worked beautifully, and she’d figured out a ragged sketch on a crank system to circulate water around a fixed plate—with a tweak or two, it might work for dishes.

Too tired to even loosen her stays, she collapsed on the featherbed. As she settled on her side, Belle rubbed her chest to ease the ache of indigestion. She laid a hand on her belly.

“It’s not your fault, little one,” she said softly. Her baby was innocent of its father’s malice. Belle swallowed hard.

“If only . . .”

Some of the cruelest words in their language, she thought. _If only._ If only it was Adam’s baby that slept beneath her heart. If only her husband didn’t keep the man she loved locked in the basement. If only . . . Belle sank into sleep with barely a ripple. The dream was crueler still. She and Adam were dancing in the ballroom, glittering in their finery. Adam was human. Familiar blue eyes set in a blurred face. She still couldn't picture his features. Smiling, he bent to kiss her as the music wept . . .

“You must hurry. They will wake soon!”

Jarred from sleep, Belle blinked up at Agatha’s pale, pockmarked face.

“A—Agatha? What are you--”

She ignored Belle, dragging her up to her feet, shoving something into her hands.

“You must hurry!” Agatha repeated, thundering down the stair. Belle shoved her feet into her boots and staggered after her.

“Be quiet, you’ll wake--”

Agatha was gone.

_Hurry!_

Belle looked down at what Agatha had given her. A small iron key. The key to Adam’s cell that Gaston always wore around his neck.

_Hurry!_

 

Belle clattered down the stairs, breathless. Adam rose in the jagged shards of moonlight, the chains clinking as he moved.

“Belle? What are you doing?” he asked, alarmed.

“There’s no time! We have to go!” Belle said, twisting the key in the lock. The screech felt horribly loud as she heaved the door open.

“Belle, this is madness!” he said.

Belle ignored him, reaching for the wrist manacle. Beneath the terror and urgency, a thrill swept through her. At last, she was close enough to touch. His scent washed over her, of fur and musk. She made quick work of his paws and one leg.

The lock stuck. Panic crept up her throat. Her hands shook.

_Hurry!_

_H_ _urry!_

“Let me,” Adam said, grasping the key between his claws. It looked so fragile in his big paw. A jiggle, a deft twist, and Belle heard a click. Adam jerked his leg against the iron, a growl rolling up from deep in his chest as it stuck. Another yank and he was free. There was a flash of an instant where the joy of it washed over him, as he at last rose his full height unencumbered. No time. _Hurry!_    

“Come on,” Belle said. Adam ducked, one on his horns snagging on the lintel. With a groan, he leaned on her shoulder. In the weak light, Belle saw the wet gleam of blood matting the fur on his wrists. Her heart lurched at the sight.  

“Forgive me, Belle. I’m weak.”

Belle bit back a cry as his weight pressed down on her.

“Come on, Adam. We can make it,” she said through her teeth.

Up the stair, they ducked out the servants’ entrance and began the long, nerve-wracking trek down the manse’s long gravel drive. Thick brush made the yard impassable—Gaston liked it best that way. Thick clouds raced across the sky, chased by a fresh, cold wind. She could smell rain in the air. Maybe a storm was coming. Good, it would wash away their tracks. Her husband was a renowned hunter. She and Adam could use any help they could get. The third glance back toward the manse found not a whisper of movement beyond the hushing sound of wind sighing through the trees. None away from what she could see. Where had Agatha gone?

Belle’s mind churned as they limped on. They couldn’t hide at her old home with Papa—that would be the first place Gaston would look.

“Do you have any allies in the village?” Adam asked, as if reading the tenor of her thoughts.

“Pére Robert,” Belle said after a moment. She gulped down a breath, adjusting Adam’s arm across her shoulders. Adam gave her an apologetic glance, and picked up the pace.

“Where does he live?”

“He has a bookshop on the south edge of village square,” she said. Adam uttered a rolling purr that was his version of a chuckle.

“It’s no wonder that you count him as a friend.”

Belle’s lips curved.

“Give me access to books, and I’ll love you forever,” she said. His ice blue eyes regarded her and she felt a familiar thrill.

“It is a good thing this Robert is a priest, then, or I would have never had a prayer.” Belle laid her head against his chest, awkward given their lurching trot.

“I’d have ridden by eventually, and picked a flower,” she said, hoping for a teasing tone. He made a gruff, noncommittal sound.

“I’m sure you would have,” Adam said, his beard tickling her forehead.

 

The rain began as she and Adam made their way to the outskirts of the village. The dark was oppressive, cold rain falling in hard, pelting sheets. Chilled, with her gown clinging wetly to her skin, Belle huddled into Adam’s furred bulk. Her legs ached from walking. A stone rattled in her left boot. Her shoulders complained from easing Adam’s weight. His arm curled, sheltering her with his body.

“Th—th--there’s Pére Robert’s cottage,” she said, teeth chattering, pointing to the squat home at the end of the lane. Adam stopped under the shelter of a tree.

“Perhaps you should go first. I wouldn’t want to give your friend an apoplexy,” Adam said, ducking his head. As used to seeing his beastly form as she was, Belle only belated realized springing him on the poor priest would terrify him. Few of the villagers who stormed Adam’s castle spoke of it, and fewer still had seen Adam himself. In the castle, he’d worn waistcoats and breeches. A man like him would feel naked in only a pair of ragged trousers.

“You’re right. I’ll be right back,” she said, squeezing his hand. His smile was a weak, tired thing. Belle skirted puddles and poised her hand to knock at Pére Robert’s door when it creaked open.

“—how many petitions it takes, I’ll go to the pope if I have to, but Belle’s marriage to that monster is a sha--” Papa broke off, blinking for a moment as if he couldn’t trust his eyes.

“Papa,” she said, leaping into his arms.

She’d hadn’t seen him since the day of her marriage to Gaston. The bags under his eyes told of sleepless nights, and the mis-buttoned vest said he wasn’t taking care of himself. His arms felt reassuringly solid though, and some of her tension bled away. Papa was here, the child inside her said, he would make everything all right. Pére Robert’s dark, handsome face was full of sympathy.

“Belle! What are you doing here? How did you escape?” Papa asked.

“There’s no time, Papa. I freed Adam and we came to ask Pére Robert if he can grant us shelter."

“Adam’s _here_?” Papa said, squinting into the darkness. With animal fluidity, Adam leapt over a small river rushing between the cobbles. He stepped into the bubble of light formed by Papa’s lantern.

“Good evening, Maurice, Pére Robert,” Adam said, with a bow.

“Good to see you again, lad. You look well,” Papa said with an easy smile.

“Considerably better than the last time you saw me,” Adam said, earning a chuckle.

Belle had only arrived in the nick of time to save Adam’s life, but the fight with Gaston had still left him with two gunshot wounds. Papa had been summoned to Gaston’s manse to pluck the shot from his wounds. Behind Papa, Pére Robert dark skin paled.

“God save us,” he said, crossing himself reflexively. Dear Adam, he tried to put the priest at ease by smiling, but the man nearly fainted at the sight of sharp, cruel fangs.

“Come—Come inside,” Pére Robert squeaked, ushering them inside without qualm.

The small parlor was lit by a low fire and two candelabras, comfortably warm. Papa urged her to the stool near the fire, draping a blanket around her shoulders. Belle watched with some amusement as Adam stepped into the cloak room and shook—like a great dog—splattering droplets of water in a fine spray around him. Tea, food, and blankets were laid out for both of them. It was only after the meal, as Belle balanced the china cup on her knee that the story emerged. Papa had been meeting with Pére Robert over the past several months seeking a way to annul Belle’s marriage to Gaston, citing coercion.

“A pittance against murder, imprisonment, and violation, I’d say,” Adam said, with a low, rolling growl that raised all the fine hairs on Belle’s arms. She closed her eyes, hugging herself beneath the protection of the wool blanket. Those words were like blows. She could hear Chip falling, see Adam straining against his chains, smell Gaston’s stink as he climbed on top of her . . .

“No doubt about that,” Papa said, unruffled, “but we must find a tack that works, see? I’ve exhausted the courts within the district. Gaston wields incredible influence. To hear the garrison talk, he won the war singlehandedly. Now, if I could only get my hands on proof, on the marriage contract--”

Belle laughed, and she heard the bitter edge to it.

“Papa, do you really think Gaston is the sort of man to draw up a contract? He said he would shoot Adam and mount his head on the wall if I left him. A legal marriage in his mind was a ring, some words said in front of his friends, and raping me afterwards,” she spat.

The three men flinched at that. Both Adam and Papa took abortive steps toward her. Belle understood their need to comfort her, but at the moment, as raw as she felt, if someone touched her she’d scream. If she started, she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to stop. Pére Robert broke the uncomfortable silence.

“That does simplify things, Belle. Now that um--”

“Adam,” Papa supplied.

“Ah yes, Adam,” Pére Robert yanked at his stock, “Now that Adam is free, you have no obligation to return to Gaston’s manse. Even if he were to come here to take you back, the church and the garrison would be obliged to protect you.”

“His friends and drinking companions? The same church and garrison who raided my castle, who terrorized my serv--” Adam began, the ire building.

“It’s not ideal,” Pére Robert cut in, “but there are still some good men in this village. She will be taken care of.” Belle, drowsing in the heat of the fire, fought off her exhaustion at those words.

“Wait, you’re not suggesting we separate?”

Papa’s grey hair and beard, smattered with its former dark brown, glittered in the firelight. His expression was mournful.

“I don’t see any other way to keep you safe, Belle. Gaston will search the village come morning, and Adam cannot be here by then.”

Belle looked to Adam, and saw her despair reflected. Adam bowed his head, his horns scraping the rafters.

“Your father is right, Belle. Your safety is paramount.”

“Can . . . can I not come with you? We could find our way back to the castle. Gaston wouldn’t look there . . .” she trailed off. They were right, she knew it was safer, but she still didn’t like it.

“I thought he’d razed it to the ground,” Adam said softly, something like hope in his eyes. Papa clapped a hand on Adam’s shoulder.

“No, it still stands. With all the ah . . . furnishings intact.” Papa rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish.

“Thank God. I should leave during the storm. I’ll be deep in the forest by sunrise,” Adam said. Belle swallowed the knot that rose in her throat.

“Very well. Pére Robert, do you have a place where I can spend the day? It wouldn’t be wise to stay in one place too long,” Belle said, rising and shrugging off the blanket. The priest laid a gentle hand on her arm.

“Of course. There is a niche adjoining the root cellar. It might be a bit damp and cramped, but you needn’t stay down there long.”

While Papa and Pére Robert clattered down the stairs to prepare her hiding place, Belle saw Adam to the door.

“Are you sure you’re strong enough to run? We could--” Adam cupped her cheek with a rough paw. The intentness in his eyes made her chest ache, as if he was trying to memorize her features.

“I feel restored after the food and rest. I’ll be all right. Try to stay out of trouble, hmm?” he teased and Belle breathed out a laugh. Belle embraced him, engulfed in his size and fur. She cherished the sound of his heartbeat.

“I’ll do my best. I’ll find a way to meet you at the castle, in three days’ time,” she whispered.

“Three days,” Adam repeated, his breath a warm caress on her brow. She released him, reluctantly. He turned toward the door, reluctantly.

“Be safe,” Belle said as he disappeared into the rain.    

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I confess, I'm no good at angst. My babies deserve a little hope, huh?


	3. Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meetings and reunions

Part 3 

Those three days were torturous for Beast. Yes, there was the fear of capture, loneliness, the constant, drenching storm, the hunger and the dark, but mostly he worried for Belle. Was she safe, cared for? Beast’s own faith in humanity was dubious at best, but he trusted Maurice. Her father would protect her. Beast smirked. Belle was fully capable of taking care of herself. Who had saved who, after all?

When Gaston had hauled him to town in the asylum’s wagon, wracked with pain from his wounds, he’d paid little attention to his surroundings. Maurice had mentioned a tree charred by lightning marking the fork in the path. The soggy grey evening of the second day, Beast found the fork. He shook himself beneath the protection of a tree. The one good thing about having fur was keeping the chill at bay. He tilted his head to the sky and caught some raindrops on his tongue.

Water was plentiful, omnipresent even, but he’d only scrounged up a handful of berries and roots. Beast pressed on, and soon his paws crunched on snow. He was close. Dread slowed his steps as he passed the ice gate, creaking and forlorn, askew on its hinges. Maurice had said that the castle was intact . . .

The chill froze the rainwater on his fur, but that was not why Beast shivered. The castle rose before him, his father’s and his father’s before him, it had been a beautiful, shining place once. That enchantress’s curse had crumbled some towers, guttered out the light, stuffed shadows and sadness in the corners. Worst of all, his servants, more family to him than the father who made him, had suffered for his arrogance. The ground seemed to buckle beneath his paws. Could he do this? Could he see what they had become, mere trinkets? The door groaned, but gave way under his shove. Dust sighed beneath his paws, and Beast swallowed hard. Before, though trapped as household objects, the castle still felt alive. Now the air felt dead, nothing stirred, nothing breathed.

“Oh God,” he said. Whatever scraps of bravery he held slipped through his fingers at the sight of a tea cart overturned, the wood splintered. . . A porcelain teapot lay on its side, the lid overturned, and beside it lay the shards of a broken teacup. Beast fell to his knees, the air knocked from his lungs. Belle had told him what happened, but it was one thing to hear it, another to see their bodies with his own eyes.

“Mrs. Potts, Chip . . . I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve this,” he said.

Gently, very gently, he righted the teapot, dusting off the lid. She had been a second mother to him, always offering a warm word and a warmer cup of tea. Her son, a child she cherished after long years without one, was a sweet and eager to please lad. At his cruelest, Beast could never summon a harsh against Chip—even his shriveled had loved him. The shards he laid on a saucer. He set to work gathering those closest to him, polishing and cleaning them. The candelabra, the clock, and feather duster he laid on the tea cart beside the pot and cup. Grief sat heavily on his shoulders, a familiar grey melancholy.

Similar scenes of destruction lay in every room. His paws felt heavy with dread as he climbed the last stair to his own suite in the west wing. He knew what he would find. The glass that had covered the rose lay overturned in glittering shards, dried dead rose petals idly stirred by the wind . . . a dark brownish stain of his own blood where Gaston had nearly killed him. Beast heaved a deep breath and shouldered through the cracked door, little more than a jagged spar of wood creaking on its hinges. He stood stunned for a moment, a female figure stood with her back to him on the balcony. His first wild thought was that Belle had beaten him here, but recognition soon dawned. For one, the woman on the balcony _glowed_.

At the heels of his grief, Beast found rage, bottomless and seething.

“ _You_ ,” he spat at the enchantress, hackles rising.

The enchantress turned, pushing back the cowl of her embroidered cloak to reveal her blond curls that glittered gold. Magic throbbed from within like a heartbeat, a low-grade luminescence. His claws bit into his palms as Beast clenched his fists.

“Admiring your handiwork, are you? Is this a fitting punishment for selfishness? Petty cruelty? Those were my crimes, if I recall.” Beast spread his arms to encompass the ruins of countless in her wake. The enchantress’ eyes, ancient eyes set in a face in the flower of youth, were filled with sadness.

“This was not my intention,” her voice was both old and young, singing and soft.

“Intent is meaningless!”

“Nevertheless, I am sorry,” she said. Beast drew in a breath to retort.

“Adam? Adam are you here?” Belle’s voice echoed from below. Beast snarled at the enchantress, back away so his bulk blocked the doorway. No force on earth or heaven would keep him from protecting Belle.

“Belle, stay back! Don’t come up!” he shouted.

“Adam?” Belle’s voice was sharp with alarm now. Beast cursed inwardly. He didn’t want to take his eyes off the enchantress—who, for her part had not moved a muscle—but a greater part of him did not want Belle in the same room as the witch.

“Stay back, Belle! I beg you!” Curse her willful stubbornness, Beast heard the clatter of her step on the stair.

“I mean no harm, Adam Dauphin,” the enchantress said. Beast scoffed.

Belle touched his back through the shattered door.

“What’s going on? You frightened me.”

“I told you to get back. The witch is here,” he growled. Belle’s dark honey eyes flew wide.

Before he could stop her, she ducked beneath his outstretched arm and glared at the enchantress. Belle stiffened and Beast laid his paws on her shoulders, ready to throw her to safety if the witch got any ideas.

“Agatha? What are you doing here?”

“You know her?” he asked, incredulous.

“She lives in the village as a pauper. But . . . how?”

The enchantress’ face wore a gentle, half-pained expression. Folding her hands in front of her, she said, “I laid great magic over this land. I had to stay and watch what sprouted.”

“And a fine job you did,” Beast snarled.

Belle half-turned to him, laying a hand on his arm.

“Agatha gave me the key to free you that night,” she said. Beast looked from her beloved face to the face that haunted his nightmares.

“What does that matter? Rotting in a cell or wandering around a shattered castle, I am still cursed. Hunted. Never mind what happened to me, what about them?” He made a sharp gesture encompassing the castle.

“They did not deserve this. Mrs. Potts . . .” his voice threatened to warble over the name, “She said they did not stop my father from making me like him. Is following orders now a death sentence? And what about Chip? An innocent child, kind and happy. What punishment did he deserve? And Belle? Did she deserve to suffer because of me?” The pain and anger burned hot, the words pouring like a torrent from him.

“The conditions of the curse were as such--”

“Ah yes, the laws of magic are immutable. But that didn’t prevent you from interfering as you wished, hmm?”

“Adam--” Belle said.

“No! What redemption is there in giving you a bloody key?”

“I was too late,” the enchantress said, her eyes brimming with tears.

“Yes, you were,” Beast said. He couldn’t forgive her for their suffering. Their punishment did not fit his crimes.

“Is there something you can do?” Belle asked.

“That is why I’m here. I came to lift the curse.” Hope kindled, a tender flame against the dark. It blistered his insides. He couldn’t survive another disappointment. Beast’s posture slumped.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” The enchantress’ face was calm, eyes so dark a green they looked black. She paused, looking discomfited—as much as a magical being could.

“There are . . . conditions.”

“What conditions?” Belle asked, folding her arms over her chest. Beast suppressed a smile. He knew the exact stance, arms folded, one eyebrow cocked.

“The original tenant of the curse was tied to the rose you refused when I came seeking shelter.”

“Yes I remember. ‘ _If he can learn to love another and earn her love in return, by the time the last petal fell, the spell would be broken_ ,’” Beast said.

“But that did happen. He loves me and I love him,” Belle said, wringing her hands in the folds of her skirt.

The enchantress’ face softened. She cupped Belle’s chin with a mother’s fondness.

“I know, child. It was not my intention for you to suffer. Timing was the issue. The rose had withered by the time you realized your feelings. I will attempt to revoke the curse despite this.”

“You can bring them back?” Beast asked.

“Yes.”

“Do it!”

“Wait,” Belle said, frowning, “are there . . . repercussions?” Fear threatened to blow out the kindling of hope.

Beast drew Belle close to him. She wasn’t linked to the magic. At least Belle would be safe. The enchantress ran a hand through her glittering curls, a surprisingly human gesture of nervousness.

“Magic comes with price. I cannot guarantee that all will be exactly as it was.”

Beast looked to Belle. He cupped her cheek with a rough paw.

“I have to try. For their sake if nothing else.”

“I know,” she whispered, kissing his palm, “I’m just afraid.” Beast mustered a wobbly smile.

“Me too.” Belle threw her arms around him. Beast sighed, enjoying her embrace. “It will be all right, Belle, I promise.” Beast breathed a kiss on her forehead and stepped toward the enchantress.

“Please. Try,” he said.

“As you wish,” she said, lifting her pale arms.

Gold light trickled through her fingers, floating in ribbon-like tendrils toward him. Warm air and smoke, smelling faintly of roses, washed over him. The wind swirled, lifting him into a cocoon of golden warmth. The warmth burrowed into him, through fur and skin, muscle and sinew, to the very center of his soul. A flash of intense, dizzying pain, then blackness.

 

Adam woke to the sound of Belle’s voice. His eyelids felt heavy, but he managed to lift them. Belle’s face was haloed above him, wreathed in light. Her glossy hair shone, flecks of gold visible in her honey brown eyes, the shape of her mouth forming his name. So beautiful. He loved her so.

“Belle,” he said. Her smile was dazzling.

“Adam! Look! It worked!”

Memory rushed back, and he looked down at himself. Not fur, but pale white skin, _hands_ not paws. He touched his face in disbelief, finding the point of his nose, supple skin, _teeth_ not fangs.

“I . . . I’m . . . Belle _look_!” he cried, staggering upright, grabbing a handful of his now-loose trousers.

Belle threw her arms around him her grip anchoring him to reality. How many times had he had this exact dream? Belle was sweet and solid against him, and he breathed in the scent of her. There were some differences, he thought. Before the curse, he would have needed heeled shoes to stand so much taller than Belle. There was no dulling of his senses; they were still as acute as a beast’s.

“Adam, it worked. You’re real. You’re human,” she whispered.

Adam peeled back far enough to look at her. Love and joy welled within him. He saw the softening of her expression, a reflection of his desire. His lips met hers. A gentle press of soft lips—so soft, so sweet!—he tightened his grip on her. Belle made a low sound, melting against him, lips parting. A very beast-like growl rumbled in his chest. Adam angled his head, sinking deeper into the kiss. Warmth and pleasure, the faint scrape of her fingernails as she ran her hands through his hair, the press of her body against his . . . desire roared through him. With difficulty, he eased back, breaking the kiss off in a series of lingering pecks. Sucking in deep breaths, Adam rested his forehead against hers.

“Slowly now, love.”

Belle’s heavy brown eyes and languid smile were enough answer as to whether she enjoyed the kissing.

“Forgive me, Adam. I’m sure you want to talk to everyone.” Her words lit a fire in him.

“It worked, then?” he asked.

The enchantress stood in the center of the room, luminous and faintly wry at their display.

“It has been done, Adam Dauphin. The curse on the castle and its inhabitants has been revoked,” she said.

“Thank you,” Adam said with a sincere bow. The enchantress smiled at both of them, then dissolved into a golden mist.

Belle draped her cloak over his naked shoulders, and hand in hand, they descended the stairs. Every meter of the cast was as it had been, the marble underfoot glistened, the statuary elegant, the halls ablaze with candlelight. At the base of the stair the servants gathered, along with Maurice. A cacophony of voices, all raised in celebration and question washed over him. Adam watched, alive with joy at the sight of them. He saw Lumiere and Plumette tangled in one corner, with Cogsworth attempted to bluster his way to order. Maestro Cadenza and Madame Garderobe sat with their dog prancing between them.

“Master! You are yourself again!” Cogsworth said, a rare smile lighting up his tired face.

“It’s good to see you again, old friend!” he said, embracing him awkwardly with one arm, the other clutching a fistful of his trousers.

One by one, he milled among them, accepting embraces and well-wishes. From what he was told, they were blessedly ignorant of the castle’s fall and following battle. He scanned the crowd and felt a rush of fear.

“Where is Mrs. Potts? And Chip?” he asked. Lumiere, his face spackled with lip-prints of rouge, grinned at him.

“Where else, Master? She is making tea for everyone. Allow me to fetch you some clothes!” he said, climbing the stairs, Plumette in hand.

Adam released Belle’s hand long enough for her to embrace her father.

“Good to see you so . . . healthy, son,” Maurice said, clapping him on the shoulder. Adam snorted.

“A delicate way to phrase it, Maurice. I am feeling much more myself now,” he said, pecking a kiss on the back of Belle’s hand.

“Time for a spot of tea, loves!” Mrs. Potts’ broad accent filled the parlor. The sight of her in her signature cap, wiping her hands on her apron, was so welcome and familiar that tears filled Adam’s eyes. Had it been an hour ago when he wept over her body?

“No promises on cream and sugar!” Chip said, lip wreathed in cream, sugar lumps fisted in his hands. A soul-deep sigh left him.

He was home, and all was well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: My absence has been too long, I'm sorry. I have been working on some original stuff, but my ficcing has suffered. More to come!

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Look, I found an evil plot bunny under the bed after I saw the gorgeous new movie. Maybe more soon.


End file.
